


Don't Judge a Book

by PlotQueen



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Constipation, Gen, Irresponsible betting/challenges, Mentions of previous relationship that was actually Bad Touch, Pre-Slash, Probable PTSD, Sterek Campaign, Teen Wolf Pack Charity Project, ohana motherfucker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-11 21:56:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlotQueen/pseuds/PlotQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a rough year Derek has decided that Stiles needs to learn how to defend himself. Of course, Derek, being Derek, doesn't always have the best ideas. The result is a pack wide mandate to prove that Stiles is a <i>victim</i>. And if there's one thing that Stiles isn't? It's a victim.</p><p>And he's going to show Derek just how much of one he's not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Judge a Book

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ihniandern](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ihniandern), [Ihni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ihni/gifts).



> For [ihniandern](http://ihniandern.tumblr.com/) who won 3k words from me in the Sterek Campaign's Wolf Pack Charity Project I. Lots of money was raised to adopt an entire pack of wolves and wolf-dogs. Go Teen Wolf fans!
> 
> Beta'd by the fabulous [famedglory](http://famedglory.tumblr.com/). Bow down to her editing skills.
> 
> [End notes are not other tags or trigger warnings and may contain slight spoilers. Skip ahead at your own risk.]

**1\. Stiles vs. Everyone Else (Or mostly just Derek’s opinion)**

_So this,_ Stiles thinks, _is what it feels like to be ganged up on by a bunch of sweaty werewolves._

Senior year is supposed to be awesome. It’s supposed to be a year of cruising through easy classes, not getting detention because Stiles has filled all of his science requirements and will never have to take chemistry or physics again so Harris can suck his dick, and trying to have some fun. Maybe get laid, but mostly just have fun. It’s at least supposed to be better than the last two years of his life.

Of course, Stiles doesn’t think that it’ll be hard for it to be better than previous years, if based on the sheer amount of terror, near death experiences, and general werewolf fuckery that has gone down. After all, and please god don’t let him be jinxing himself, there hasn’t been any of that in at least ten months—barring when Jackson and Scott got into it two full moons ago.

In fact, the only thing that seems to be making life less than perfect is the pack. Or rather how the pack treats him.

Stiles will be the first in line to admit that the majority of his werewolf related lifestyle has been rough. Yes, Scott tried to kill him a few times. And yes, Jackson made the same attempts as a scaly alter-ego. The less mentioned about Gerard Argent, the better. And Stiles has threatened everyone with wolfsbane if they mention the Alpha Pack unless it’s absolutely necessary.

Sure, it might be overkill, but the titanium rod, screws, subsequent surgery, hospital time, and rehab time makes Stiles feel very entitled to his violent opinion of the subject. And his attitude is so much better about it now than it was when he was actually still in therapy, but considering the hospital still says his femur is only at about 75% Stiles prefers to retain all rights to his bitch face.

But senior year, ganged up on, these are the important facts and Stiles is not having any of this shit.

“What part of I’m not allowed to do half of this shit do you not understand?” Stiles demands from where he’s collapsed against the front steps. Derek is only about halfway through remodeling it, but considering how bad it was after the fire and years of exposure to the elements, it’s kind of like the Hilton now.

His hand grips his right thigh where the bone is still integrating with metal as he lifts his heel to prop on the next step up. It’s sore and the ache is un-ironically bone deep. Nothing will touch it if Stiles does too much—which he has—and he has no desire to spend the night awake as his leg throbs at him. Or have to explain why the healing has slowed at his next ortho appointment.

He resolutely doesn’t think about the cane that’s in the back of the Jeep, just in case, or the fact that the orthopedist hasn’t released Stiles to do so much as P.E. much less lacrosse or werewolf training. Or maybe especially werewolf training, because Stiles couldn’t keep up with wolves before he got hurt, and he sure as hell shouldn’t be trying when he’s still recovering.

Derek growls at him, eyes hooded and angry. “What part of you need to be able to defend yourself do _you_ not understand?”

It stings more than it should, but Stiles can only wonder at how he didn’t actually expect this. The knee-jerk reaction to spit, “I can totally defend myself,” isn’t taken any better than it should be, either, because Derek actually _bares his teeth_ at Stiles.

“Oh fuck off, Derek,” Stiles groans, manfully not burying his face into his hands no matter how much he might like to. “I can defend myself.”

“Baby werewolves,” is what Derek chooses to lead with before he lists off everyone who’s hurt Stiles because of the supernatural in the last two years.

“I’ve taken steps to prevent it from happening again,” Stiles grinds out, his teeth feeling like they should be turning to powder, he’s grinding them so hard.

This time it’s Jackson who scoffs, the snort he makes making him actually unattractive. Or wait, maybe that’s just his personality, because even overcoming his scaly issues thanks to ‘true love’ (whatever, Lydia can totally do better than Jackson) hasn’t improved his disposition much.

“Just get out here, Stilinski,” Jackson huffs.

Stiles sighs, rubs his leg one more time, and completely disobeys doctor’s orders by rejoining werewolf training. Again.

.

“Oh, Jesus _fuck_ ,” Stiles moans as he settles his leg onto the giant cushy ottoman he convinced Derek to buy. Scott and Allison are hovering behind him, one with the bottle of ibuprofen and the other with two ice packs to line his thigh with. “I _told_ you that I'm not supposed to be doing this.”

Derek actually looks half contrite from where he’s pretending he doesn’t care on the other side of the room.

Stiles, however, isn’t fooled. He knows exactly what’s going on in Derek’s narrow-minded werewolf brain, and it goes something along the lines of ‘I am right, Stiles is a victim, I am the Alpha.’ Okay, so maybe he’s embellished it a little, because it’s actually been a while since Derek answered anything with his Alpha-hood as primary answer, but Stiles feels sure that the rest is completely 100% accurate.

Then Derek opens his mouth and proves how right Stiles is.

“You can’t defend yourself.”

Stiles ignores Derek while he settles the ice packs against his leg. It won’t help much now, but in a little while he’ll be able to feel the chill as deep as he needs it, and it’ll do a hell of a lot to help where his knee feels too tight from trying to compensate for the weak femur. He keeps ignoring Derek until he’s dry swallowed a couple of pills, hoping and praying that they’ll work faster because of his empty stomach but knowing that in a little while he’s going to be so nauseous because ibuprofen? Should never be taken without food.

Right now, though, Stiles couldn’t give two fucks. His leg hurts, his _entire body hurts_ , and he kind of wants to stab Derek right in one of his beady red alpha eyes. Asshole.

Once he feels like he’s done everything he can to help ease his agony, Stiles leans back into the couch, eyes searching Derek out who is still standing there staring like a creeper. He glares. Hard.

“Okay, first? Today is a completely unfair test of my own capability.” Derek rolls his eyes, and whoever said that Derek never said anything never realized that Derek Hale is a sassy motherfucker. Stiles flips him the bird and continues. “My leg was already fucking tired from the physio. You know, the rehab I’ve had three time this week already? And also? Not a werewolf. Still healing.”

Stiles pauses as Isaac flops down next to him, one hand reaching for Stiles leg and starting to leech the pain out. Stiles gives a shuddering moan as the throbbing recedes down to something barely noticeable. Isaac smiles at him and Stiles tries to return it but mostly his mouth just kind of wobbles.

“Better than sex,” he tells the wolf. Isaac chuckles, but keeps leeching the pain.

His narrows his eyes back at Derek and frowns. “What was I on? Oh, right, C.” Derek makes a face at Stiles but he just bares his teeth. “I don’t actually want to hurt any of you.” Because seriously, the only thing Stiles could come up with to protect himself is a bunch of shit that really isn’t meant to be practiced in polite company, werewolf healing aside.

Derek frowns even harder and Stiles is tempted to tell him not to break his face. That’s mostly just because Stiles is pretty sure it’s already broken, but Derek is still pretty so Stiles holds his tongue.

“I don’t think you’re taking this seriously enough, Stiles,” Derek tells him.

This time it’s Stiles he rolls his eyes. “Just because I can’t jump a hundred feet in the air turning pretty little summersaults doesn’t mean that I don’t take this seriously. But this is the stuff you guys can do. Not me.”

“You haven’t proven you can do anything, Stiles.”

Stiles huffs and shakes his head.

“Except that you can get hurt.”

“Did we really just go there?” Stiles demands.

“I just want to make sure you can be safe,” Derek reasons.

Stiles? Is having exactly none of his shit. “I can take care of myself, Derek,” Stiles tells him, the edge in his voice hard and unwavering.

Derek folds his arms across his chest and raises his chin. “Really?” He pauses, the silence heavy enough that Stiles can hear Isaac breathing next to him, Scott and Allison still somewhere behind him, Boyd and Erica and Jackson in the kitchen. Oh it’s such a weighted silence.

Then Derek says, “I'm sure you can,” and it’s not so much the words as the tone that does Stiles in. because Stiles can hear disdain, disapproval dis-everything Derek is trying to say all rolled into one bitchy little insult.

And Stiles sees red.

“And I suppose you think you’re just the person to show me otherwise, huh?” It’s out of Stiles mouth before he can second guess it, but after a moment of staring at Derek’s slightly surprised face Stiles can’t be bothered to regret it.

Derek smirks. “Of course.”

Stiles smirks back. “Oh yeah? Prove it.”

This time it’s Derek on the defensive, because Stiles can easily tell that Derek didn’t expect Stiles to come back at him like that. But he’s the alpha and he’s not going to back down, which Stiles realizes he’s counting on. Because if he can beat Derek at his own game, then he can get Derek off of his back about extra training so that Stiles can focus on the important things.

Like senior year and all the fun times he’s supposed to have. And finishing up his physical therapy, because without that there will be no fun times, only holy shit my leg is killing me times.

So when Derek asks, “Is that a request, Stiles?” Stiles just lets his smirk grow.

“Fuck you. It’s a challenge. I’ll show you exactly how much of a victim I am.”

And just like that, the gauntlet is thrown.

**2\. Jackson (Or Jackson proves how much of a douche he can be)**

Jackson isn’t sure if it’s good luck or a blessing in disguise when Derek pulls him off to the side before the next pack meeting (though Jackson honestly has no idea why anyone still calls them that—it’s hanging out at Derek’s almost every day after school, there is nothing meeting like about it) and tells him that he’s ‘allowing’ him first go at proving that Stilinski can’t handle himself. Jackson doesn’t bother concealing his glee even in the face of Derek’s frown/glare/scowl but doesn’t quite bite back all of the pain noises when Derek tosses him through a door.

Maybe he shouldn’t have gloated about finally putting Stilinski in his place.

Either way, Jackson has first crack at Stilinski, rules, restrictions, and outright instructions aside. No broken bones, no blood (though what Derek doesn’t know won’t hurt him), and not too public because the last thing the pack needs is to have school officials eyeballing any of them for jumping the sheriff’s kid.

But that’s fine, Jackson can work with that and then some, because half of the attempts at thickening his school file have been altercations with Stilinski. And if Derek thinks that shoving Stiles into a locker for a few hours or even overnight is going to get Jackson more than a slap on the wrist, well, he just doesn’t know Jackson Whittemore very well at all. Because Jackson is fully prepared to embellish on Derek’s disturbingly specific instructions.

 _Trip him up, nothing too big, just enough to get his attention._ There was the whole host of provisos about actually hurting the human. Jesus _fuck_. Sometimes Jackson just wishes Derek would get over himself and fuck Stiles into the wall.

.

There are only two things that save Stiles on Monday’s when he’s late for lacrosse practice. The first is that he’s not actually playing. Finstock is adamant that Stiles dress out and watch practice, which is basically a ginormous waste of time that Stiles will never get back. The second is that every Monday Stiles is actually trapped in mandatory counseling sessions with Morrell. Granted, those are more like Hogwarts lite most days, but every once in a while she actually starts trying to talk to him.

He gets that, it’s her job, and it’s what they tell everyone goes on. It’s a way better cover story than trying to explain that he’s usually studying magic books from the town vet or brushing up on werewolf customs courtesy of Peter’s laptop.

But that doesn’t mean that Stiles ever actually wants to talk to her. Deaton may trust her and have some weird co-ed bromance going on with Morrell, but after seeing her involvement with the Alpha pack Stiles doesn’t really trust her as far as he can throw her.

So it’s a natural reaction on days that she’s actually tried to talk to him (and really, there’s only so many times he can glare her down because he’d rather talk to _Derek_ about the Alpha pack and Ethan and the entire mess that was) that Stiles is in a pissy mood by the time he hits the locker room to dress out and watch everyone else playing the game he loves. The injustice of it all, really. One fucking game to shine and a broken femur before the first game of the next season. His life, what is it even?!

A glance at his watch tells Stiles that he’s only about twenty minutes late to practice, and no matter what that’s going to get him a whole string of speeches from Coach. He darts through the door and heads straight for his locker, mind still on Morrell and her unsubtle attempts at prodding him into conversation. His plaid shirt is half off, backpack already slung down onto the bench as he struggles with his belt when it hits him.

Literally.

Jackson is about as subtle as a freight train, because Stiles can practically hear his stream of thought. He knows exactly what Jackson is waiting for as he barrels Stiles into the unforgiving metal of his locker door. He’s expecting a yelp of pain, the sound of flesh and bone smashing into it, maybe even blood because Stiles has no idea how far Derek is willing to go to prove his point.

So Stiles makes sure that that is exactly what Jackson gets.

He can feel the exact moment that Jackson pauses, his hands on Stiles’ shoulders, and as Stiles turns he can see the realization of how things have changed all over Jackson’s face. Because Stiles? Isn’t the skinny kid he was two years ago, or even just one. He’s taller than Jackson, and he’s not scrawny, either, thanks to months of rigorous physical therapy.

And then he can see the realization that Stiles? Isn’t actually in front of Jackson, and Stiles doesn’t bother trying to hide his smirk as he makes Jackson eat metal just the way Jackson had tried to do him.

Wolf instinct makes Jackson turn, lunging back at Stiles as his eyes flare blue and sharper than human teeth start to drop into his mouth. And then Stiles’ fingers dig into Jackson’s shoulders and—

Pain.

Nothing but pain.

It’s sheer agony running all over Jackson’s pretty features, his mouth flopping open to gasp like a fish as he crumples into a ball of agony against the bottom of the locker. Stiles rubs at his knee as Jackson slides to the left and curls in on himself, hands clutching at his groin where Stiles had just violently introduced his patella to all of Jackson’s fleshy sensitive bits. Oh yes, Stiles is going to gloat _shamelessly_.

But later, because after dealing with an entire school day, then Morrell, and _then_ Jackson, Stiles thinks that he deserves to skip practice and go home. If Finstock asks, he’ll… Probably lie and say he had an appointment. There’ll be no proof of Jackson trying to stuff him into a locker, and Stiles doesn’t really feel like being a huge dick. Jackson’s dick is currently punishing him enough that Stiles feels completely justified in resettling his jeans at his hips so that his belt doesn’t dig into bone, tugging his flannel back into place, and collecting his backpack.

He frowns down at Jackson for a moment but after the initial reaction, it’s just not fun watching Jackson clutch his balls anymore. So Stiles just frowns a little more because annoying, and leaves Jackson to drop his head to the icy cement.

(He does bask for another quick moment when Jackson moans softly. Werewolf healing or no, there’s nothing like a solid knee to the groin.)

Stiles expects that it might even hurt more than when Jackson has to report to Derek later. Because Jackson? Has totally failed. And while Stiles hasn’t exactly proven his point yet, and he does mean yet, he’s still doing better than Derek.

**3\. Erica (Or Catwoman gets her tail in a twist)**

“I want you to play to his weakness,” Derek tells her.

Erica shifts red painted lips into a small smile. She doesn’t say anything for a second, eyes focused on the little mirror she’d been using to check her makeup, but she doesn’t strain her Alpha’s temper for too long. “How far do you want me to go?” Erica asks, trying very hard not to let her tone betray her eagerness.

At the flare of red in Derek’s eyes she knows she failed at that.

“You know how far you can go,” he tells her gruffly, and Erica flounces a little, because yes, she actually does know how far she _can’t_ go. She doesn’t like being reminded of it, either. Neither does Derek.

“Erica,” he says lowly, a warning growl laced across it.

She ducks her head. “Yes, Alpha,” she murmurs, because she does understand, really. She can go a little really, not too far, because no one actually wants to hurt Stiles.

.

Stiles hates working blind. He can deal with deadlines, looming evil, and looming asshole alphas, but going in blind drives him ten kinds of crazy. He spends half the night muttering insults at Derek and the other half trying to work from the vague clues Derek gave him as he tries to head off the next supernatural problem in his town.

But, and Stiles prides himself on this but, it’s not the first time he’s had to do this. Both the working blind and the absurdly short timeframe Derek has given him because, let’s face it, Derek has control issues a mile wide. Not that Stiles is judging, or blaming. Well, maybe blaming, at least a little.

But the point is that Stiles gets it, and understands where Derek is coming from, and that he will help Derek take care of business. Even when he’s a giant bag of dicks.

Derek asked (demanded) results this morning but there was the promise of imminent maiming if Stiles showed up before eight, so Stiles decides to go to the diner for breakfast, seeing as how it’s not even seven and Stiles has already popped his morning dose of Adderall. The rest of the day is going to hurt, yeah, but there’s no way he’s going to fall asleep. So Stiles finds himself a booth in the back and slides in, promptly hitting his shin against the bar holding the table up.

When Laurie comes by for his order he’s ready. Stiles had gotten the same order since he was a kid and his mom was still alive and the diner was their Saturday morning Stilinski family tradition. He figures between eggs, hash browns, pancakes, bacon, sausage, and ham he should be good to go. And the endless coffee is just nourishment to his bloodstream, which was already feeling a little thin.

Stiles is mostly done when he realizes he’s not alone, the itching on the back of his neck making him stiffen a little as he tries to discreetly take a glance around. His glance, however, is kind of unneeded. Erica sticks out from the other patrons thanks to stilettos, tight black leather, and a red pout that has made lesser men than he think inappropriate things.

When she starts stalking towards him Stiles sighs a little and his heart rate ratchets up.

“Bruce,” she all but purrs as she slides in next to him, effectively blocking him in, one red-nailed hand laying over the papers he’d been reviewing to make sure he had his ducks in a row, the other sliding up his thigh entirely too close to things he wants far, far away from her claws.

Stiles swallows and tries not to shift. “Selina.”

The smile Erica smiles at him is not comforting, and more terrifying than anything else, but that’s probably because Stiles knows exactly what Erica is capable of these days. She smiles wider as his heart skips along a little faster, his nerves getting the better of him.

“So what’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?” she asks him. Her cleavage is inches away from his face and Stiles does shift back now.

He chuckles a little, as self-deprecating as he can be. “You know what they say; no rest for the wicked.”

“Wicked, Stiles?” He can almost hear the ‘oh, really’ tacked on to the end. Before he can say anything Erica invites him to watch her eat breakfast and starts stealing his. Then she does two things at once: her hand slides further up his thigh and, yeah, that’s a total biological reaction to a hot girl practically groping his dick, and Erica sucks on the last sausage, almost like a promise.

And Stiles loves Erica, really. He adores and fears her in equal measures, though not on the same scale as Lydia, but right now? Right now he really hates her. And Derek, too, because now Stiles knows exactly what’s going on, and it only makes his stomach turn and his head swim with nausea. Thank god he took an Axe shower this morning while his dad was hogging the hot water, otherwise Erica’s little game would be up, and Stiles isn’t sure if she’d just ramp up the seduction or resort to brute strength.

She’s watching Stiles carefully now, and in a split second the decision is made. Stiles will never be able to pull off a reversal of seduction, so he twists the sick smile on his face and does what he does best. He bullshits. Which right now consists of a lot of self-conscious rambling, shifting his half hard dick away from her, and ducking his face while he lets his skin flush pink.

She can think it’s all flushed, flustered arousal all she wants.

Stiles knows better. He knows a hell of a lot better.

And honestly, he thought Derek would have, too. How much it hurts that Derek would use this against him is something that Stiles can’t even begin to fathom as he starts tugging at his papers, still playing the hapless, helpless teenage boy. “You’re feeling very bright eyed and bushy tailed this morning,” Stiles tries, his mind miles away.

Erica smirks and his stomach turns again. “How does it go? The early bird gets the worm?” The unsubtle metaphor is reinforced when Erica’s hand shifts almost directly onto his crotch.

Stiles yelps, the momentary panic overtaking him. His hand slips on the sheaf of papers and they scatter across the table as Stiles jerks away from Erica. She’s still smirking, but for once it’s not reaching her eyes. Stiles is pretty sure that she’s aware of crossing a line. Maybe more than one, because Stiles has no idea what kind of instructions Derek has given everyone in his attempt to prove that Stiles needs Derek to train him.

“You can’t just do things like that!” Stiles hisses as he gets himself back under control. His hands are shaking, though, as he grabs at papers and shoves them back together before stuffing them in his backpack. He doesn’t care about the bits of food and syrup smears, he just cares about getting the fuck up out of here. Actually, he mostly just cares about not remembering anything to do with Ethan or the cluster fuck that was.

Of course, when Derek sends one of his puppies to try and seduce Stiles it kind of does the complete opposite of that.

He exhales roughly through his nose, one hand clutching at his thigh and the metal there that will be a permanent reminder of all of the things Ethan had done to him. The fact that not all of them were bad only makes it that much worse. The only thing that Stiles hates more than that is that he was complicit in it. Stupid enough to think that anyone remotely attractive would take an interest in him.

He seizes on to the revulsion and anger, lets it make the flush climb back up and turn his ears pink. This is a part he’s played before, so if Erica thinks she can seduce him into giving information or stalling him? Well, he’ll just play right along.

So when she breathes warmly against his ear, body flush against his, and murmurs, “Why not, Batman?” Stiles doesn’t flinch back or try and shrink into himself. Instead he tries to get back into the rhythm of their interaction without overplaying his hand.

“For one, we’re in public,” he huffs as he makes every attempt to be nonchalant as he straightens his backpack out.

Erica’s hand drifts back to his leg and squeezes a little. “Nobody’s paying any attention to us,” she cajoles, and Stiles is so fucking proud of himself for not rolling his eyes at that because everyone with testosterone has at least one eye on her, and there’s at least one waitress eyeing Erica up on top of the men.

But it’s enough. She’s taken the bait, believes that he’s falling for it. _Again._ But still, it’s enough.

Stiles covers the hand on his leg with his own, squeezes it in the same breath as his other hand comes out of his backpack. And in two sudden snicks and a single jerk of Erica’s arm she’s handcuffed to one of the steel supports that come off of the main beam beneath the table. In the next breath Stiles is slithering down under the table and out the other side, backpack clutched tightly in white-knuckled fingers.

Erica looks ready to spit fire.

Or sprout claws.

Stiles is just relieved that she’s not trying to seduce him anymore. Homicidal Erica is so much more endearing than the Ready-To-Grope edition.

“Derek?” he demands as calmly as he can before she can start making threats. She sits back, the silence enough of an answer. Stiles is so done here. “Fine. Just remember that damage to public and police property is punishable by fine and jail time.”

“What?” she asks as he starts to slide out. “Stiles, wait, you can’t just leave me here like this.”

He stops for a moment and turns very angry eyes on her. “I’ll let Derek know where to collect you. Next time think twice about putting your hands on someone without their permission.”

Heat rises in her cheeks and she looks away as Stiles gets up again. He drops a twenty on the table and nods at Laurie before leaving.

He’s too reckless as he drives to Derek, but right now Stiles doesn’t really care. This wasn’t a shot across the bow anymore, and Stiles is pretty pissed that Derek thinks this would be an acceptable opening volley. But he’s won the battle if not the war, and the metaphor is really getting away from him. Stiles just huffs at the part of his brain that can’t stop whirring over the last twenty minutes until he brings the Jeep to a stop in front of Derek’s half-remodeled house.

He’s already on the porch waiting, so Stiles wastes no time in hopping out, leaving his baby running for a quick getaway, and heading straight to Derek so he can slam the research he’s not even sure Derek really needed into his stupid, overly muscled chest.

“Your puppy is handcuffed to the diner,” Stiles informs him, his voice icy.

“ _To_ the diner?” Derek asks, one eyebrow quirking up.

Stiles glares for a moment and then, despite knowing how much it’ll hurt, hauls back and punches Derek solid in the face. He feels Derek’s nose give under his fist but doesn’t wait for results or reprisals, just turns and walks back to the Jeep. He waits until he’s comfortably ensconced before chancing a look in the side mirror. Derek is standing there, one hand fisting the papers, his face covered in blood.

Stiles just shakes his head. “That was low, even for you. _Especially_ for you,” he mutters. He doesn’t look again, because right now nothing Derek could say would make Stiles okay with it. He just puts the Jeep into first and drives back the way he came.

**4\. Scott & Boyd (Or who thought letting Scott plan anything was a good idea?)**

Erica is in trouble.

In fact, the trouble only grows in the three days since Derek had to go collect her from the diner and has come to a head in a pack meeting—sans Stiles—to explain to them that they’re not actually supposed to be hurting Stiles, physically or mentally. Just… showing him the error of his ways. But the meeting has been mostly spent with Jackson sulking because Stiles got the drop on him and Erica pissed off that she spent three hours handcuffed at the diner in the most uncomfortable clothing she owns.

Derek is grumpy on top of their attitudes, but that’s nothing new, so mostly the pack ignores that in favor of his anger.

Scott does understand why Derek is so pissed at Erica. Probably better than most, because he’s the one that had to sit with Stiles after they found out his boyfriend was an alpha who’d basically been fucking him for information. The aftermath hadn’t been pretty, and the fact that Stiles has spent the last three days ignoring everyone except for Lydia, Danny and himself didn’t really speak well of how Stiles was taking Derek’s efforts.

But the terrible thing was that Scott could see where Derek was coming from on that, too, because Scott didn’t want to ever see Stiles unconscious in a hospital room again.

Or worse. Because Stiles has a stubborn streak a mile wide and he doesn’t spill his secrets just because of great sex. He also doesn’t spill his secrets under torture, either, so all the shit Stiles was put through was basically for nothing.

But everything seems pretty much okay, or at least static, until Peter chimes in by comparing Erica’s seduction technique (and Scott really isn’t sure he wants to know how Peter knows enough about it to critique it) to an elephant in a china shop.

Naturally Erica takes offense, which is exactly why Peter exists—to give offense. “I got closer than Jackson did,” she growls, her brown eyes paling to gold as she glares at Peter. “I dare anyone to do it better.”

And naturally Jackson escalates the matter because that’s almost what he does best. (His hair is actually what he does best according to a lot of people Scott hears at school.) “I’ll second that. Fifty bucks says no one else does a better job of cornering Stilinski.”

Comparisons and threats go fast and heavy for the next five minutes and before Scott can’t look away from the train wreck this is becoming there’s a thousand dollars backing up Jackson’s and Erica’s claims that no one can do better. It devolves even more quickly after that because Lydia proceeds to rip Jackson a new one and stalks out. Danny follows her only after smacking Jackson in the head, both of them loudly proclaiming, “You’re all idiots. You should leave Stiles alone.”

But a thousand dollars is a thousand dollars, and Scott really covets that cash. He could do so many things with it.

And then, he has an idea.

So when he finds Boyd the next morning at school and says, “We should team up, I have a great idea,” Scott isn’t really remembering all of the times his ideas haven’t actually been all that great.

Or the fact that it’s never really him that suffers for it.

.

There are few places in the world that Stiles absolutely doesn’t want to return to. Granted, it’s mostly because Stiles hasn’t exactly been to a lot of places (and god help anyone who gets between Stiles and his bucket list of backpacking through most of Eurasia one day), but there are a few that are on the list of places he Never Ever Wants To Go Back To. The hospital is always right at the top, because he spent too much time there watching his mom die, watching Lydia languish in a coma, and he’s terrified that one day he’ll wind up there because of his dad.

But the warehouse where Gerard nearly bit the big one and the Alpha pack nearly killed half of the pack is tied for second (because let’s face it, no teenager—no _child_ —ever wants to go to high school, and Harris is a dick) easily.

BUT.

Scott called, and emergencies wait for no werewolf, nor human sidekick. And he said hurry, so Stiles does, because Scott did sound kind of desperate. Stiles dreads finding out what supernatural badass is bothering them this time and as he parks the Jeep outside the warehouse, grabbing his baseball bat from the backseat, Stiles spares a moment to think of the research Derek had made him do. Maybe Derek wasn’t just being an alpha douchebag, and if it was the truth Stiles would be the bigger man and apologize. In his head.

What? He never said he was all that mature. Maturity is entirely overrated.

Stiles is ready for almost anything that can be thrown at him. It’s too quiet, and Stiles sees the bay door gapped open an inch or three. But let it not be said that Stiles is a fool. Hell no, he’s a canny little fucker who has a vested need to keep himself alive, so Stiles takes a little mental walk through the warehouse to try and come up with a plan. He wasn’t in it for very long the first time, but he’d spent a few days enjoying the Alpha pack’s hospitality the second time, and Stiles it pretty sure he remembers a few details that escaped him the first go around.

It only takes a few minutes to get around to the northwest corner of the warehouse and, sure enough, behind a stack of rotting pallets there’s a rusted gap between the corrugated metal wall and the steel support it’s supposed to be attached to. A couple of years ago, Stiles thinks, he’d have been able to slink through it with no problem. Now? It’s a tight squeeze as he tries to work his shoulders through it as quietly as possible, hoping that the ambient sounds of the surrounding area will cover the small scrapes and scuffs he makes.

He makes it through and finds himself behind a dead forklift and a bunch of haphazardly stacked boxes that Stiles is pretty sure are ready to fall and crush him if he so much as breathes wrong. The warehouse is half lit and it’s hard to see because the shadows aren’t really touched by the dim lights. This is Stiles’ excuse for why when he stumbles across Boyd he actually takes a swing on him with the bat, pulling at the very last second because he recognizes that silhouette almost instinctively after all the shit they’ve been through.

His relief is sadly short-lived, because right about the same time Stiles is pulling the swing of the bat, wood sliding in his grip as he tries to twist it away, Boyd goes stumbling backward with werewolf speed so that he doesn’t take 40 ounces of hickory to his stomach. Stiles has the strength, the bat has the weight, and he knows that when he puts his back into it he can generate well upwards of 80 miles per hour of thrust that would make even a werewolf crumple with broken bones.

So Boyd, naturally, is trying to avoid having to heal ribs and internal organs when there’s obviously a problem he’s helping Scott with, and Stiles watches as he stumbles back out of reach. And into… What the actual fuck. In seconds Boyd goes from standing on his own two feet to yelping like an idiot as his feet are swept out from under him. Stiles is ready with the bat again, but even in the lack of clear light Stiles can see that Boyd is hanging upside down by his ankle from some rope attached to a chain.

Then there’s a dark shadow dropping from above and the bat goes whistling through the air again, and Stiles _knows_ he’s put everything he’s got into it because he had to take a shuffle step to the side to balance out the force of it. He doesn’t connect though, and while he’s trying to choke his grip on the bat to make a second swing he gets hit in the stomach by a sack of bricks.

It hurts. Oh, it fucking hurts, but Stiles is already moving again despite the fact that he can’t really breathe and his lungs feel like they’re seizing. At least his leg feels fine and about as far away from collapse as it can be. The third swing he takes catches his assailant in the head. It’s not hard, not nearly as hard as his second or even first swings were, but it’s enough to lay the guy out so that Stiles can double over, one hand using the bat to hold himself up, the other clutching around his middle because fuck, that hurts, and it’s going to leave a mark.

This is the moment when he sees his attacker and nearly shrieks in outrage. All in all, Stiles decides as his body tries to relearn how to breathe, Scott’s lucky he didn’t get his skull broken on accident. But now Stiles can see the pattern of events and, with a breathless glare at Boyd (who is wisely remaining silent under Stiles’ very righteous fury), he goes from pissed to pissed beyond belief in about two seconds flat.

“Really?” he wheezes in Boyd’s direction. His glare only grows as Boyd gives his best attempt at a shrug while dangling upside down.

“It was Scott’s idea,” Boyd offers, and that is it. Stiles is done.

He clambers to his feet, bat holding him up while he gets his wind back, and just shakes with anger. “Because Scott’s ideas are ever any good?”

“It did fall apart quickly.”

Stiles feels the urge to claw at his face in frustration. “I keep saying I can take care of myself. I can. But I can take care of you, too.”

It’s just a light tap, really, nothing nearly as hard as what got Scott, but Stiles knows werewolves and how hard to hit them to knock them out. Once Boyd is out and his trusty bat is back to holding his gasping frame upright, Stiles resolves to get to work. Because it’s not revenge, it’s about getting even. And he’s so completely game for that. He takes a breath and chuckles as he drops to his knees next to Scott and starts stripping him.

He calls Derek an hour later as he drives himself to the hospital. “You need to collect your puppies again,” Stiles tells him, then calls him a dick, and an asshole, and then hangs up on him. Then he hits send on the text that he painstakingly put together before getting into the Jeep.

By morning the entire pack will be able to enjoy the sight of Scott and Boyd hanging by their ankles.

Face to face.

In their underwear.

And it’s not revenge. Really.

**5\. Isaac (Or this was a really, really bad idea)**

The only reason Isaac is really involved with this is because his alpha ordered it. Granted, if he manages to pull it off he gets to take a thousand bucks off of Jackson’s greedy little claws, but Isaac doesn’t think he’s going to get to. For one, Scott has already given Isaac a warning about being too hardcore with Stiles now that it’s his turn. It’s no secret that Stiles had to spend the night in the hospital and then miss a day of school because of two cracked ribs.

Isaac held his tongue and didn’t point out that it was Scott’s fault in the first place, but that’s mostly because he can’t stand being faced with any of Scott’s puppy dog faces, much less the wide, teary eyed stare of utter broken hearts. Stronger men (and women) than Isaac have fallen under its spell.

Fortunately, though, Isaac likes Stiles anyway and never really intended to be a jerk about it.

.

He kind of hopes that Derek has given up, or at least temporarily put a halt to his attempts at proving Stiles needs to train with the wolves, because his ribs hurt. It’s not as bad as it was a few days ago, they’re not cracked through even halfway according to the hospital _and_ his orthopedist—and Stiles really didn’t  need the hell he caught from both him and his father over cracked ribs before his femur was even through healing.

He blamed Scott, loudly and without shame.

But yeah, his ribs still hurt. And the deep breathing exercise he’s supposed to do at least once an hour doesn’t really help with that, but it’s completely necessary because Stiles really, really, _really_ doesn’t want to have to deal with a collapsed lung on top of everything else. The doctor showed him diagrams, and then painfully graphic pictures of how the hospital went about fixing it. A giant needle in his side is like the last thing Stiles wants or needs right now.

Suffice it to say that Stiles’ guard is down as he slouches his way down an empty hallway (hey, it pays to have a doctor’s note giving him permission to avoid crowded hallways) on his way to the throwaway art class he signed up for to round out his elective requirements.

So finding himself face-first in a locker is completely unexpected. _And it hurts like a motherfucker._ He’s pretty sure his ribs are fine, even if it feels like a hot poker going through his side for that split second of impact, and his nose isn’t much better. Stiles can feel the warmth of blood oozing from it, and the radiating hurt driving out from it.

But Stiles has had a lot of firsthand experience with pain. Experience that in no way makes the pain any less, but sure as hell lets him slide into a place in his head where it doesn’t quite touch him and he can still function.

He doesn’t lose himself in it, just kind of slithers his body down the locker door he’s shoved up against, his body weight dragging him from his assailant’s hands so that he can duck under the arm over his head. He grabs the wrist as he does, because they didn’t grab onto him like they should have, and as he keeps moving until he’s pressed against their back, he twists the arm with him.

He recognizes the tousled blond curls at almost the exact moment he shoves Isaac’s face into the lockers and dislocates his shoulder with a loud, wrenching pop. Stiles swears he can hear the sound of things ripping under the force he used.

His hands are off Isaac almost immediately, because the taller boy is kind of huddled against the lockers, his own face now bloody and clutching at his injured shoulder with a low keen of pain. And Stiles feels bad. Really, he does, because out of all of them Isaac is the one who Stiles least wants to hurt like, ever.

But his ribs are hurting again when they’d started to get tolerable, and his nose hurts which makes his face hurts, and Stiles is so fucking tired of Derek’s alpha shenanigans that he just can’t spare the energy to feel bad about hurting Isaac. Especially when Isaac will heal a hell of a lot faster than Stiles will.

So really when Stiles ignores Isaac’s shocked eyes and turns around to walk away, he can’t be blamed. He’s just done. So very fucking done.

He tugs on the sleeve of his flannel shirt as he yanks his backpack up and dabs it at his nose with it. Thank god, it doesn’t feel like it’s broken, or anything worse than just really bruised. That would probably be the final straw with his dad, and Stiles thinks that if it came to explaining another inexplicable injury when he’s still on restrictions from the orthopedist, he’d rather turn Derek and his pack over to his dad. The truth, the _real_ truth, would probably be the only thing that could save his ass if that happened.

Stiles doesn’t stick around long enough to watch Isaac drag himself to his feet and scurry out of school for Peter’s help reducing his shoulder back into socket. He’s got plenty of other things on his mind. Like how he’s going to be spending the foreseeable future ducking his dad (because yeah, his nose isn’t broken but he can _feel_ that bruise spreading) AND ducking the alpha douchebag.

If Derek thinks that Stiles is going to keep playing his games, he has another thing coming.

**6\. Hunters (Or karma is a bitch)**

Ducking the wolves is a lesson in stealth and stubbornness. He’s raided Deaton’s supply of mountain ash three times in the last two weeks because he’s not about to let any of them near his house, much less inside it, and also because a pinch of it combined with his soap helps muffle his scent well enough that he can ghost along the edges of the pack when at school. And he may or may not have trapped Erica inside the girl’s room when she nearly got her hands on him one day last week.

All in all, Stiles is pretty sure that he’s made his displeasure well known and, if the way his phone beeps texts at him on a regular basis, it’s not being taken well. Which is fine by him, because none of them should have been messing with him in the first place.

There _are_ upsides though, because his ribs are a little better than halfway healed and Stiles has been cleared for activity again. And is leg just got upgraded to 80%, which is nothing short of a miracle. Stiles has been given permission to jog. _To jog._ And jogging shouldn’t sound like a godsend, but Stiles might actually have cried a little once he got home with his updated restrictions list.

So the moral of the story is that Stiles? Hasn’t been talking to the wolves. Lydia, yes, because you only avoid Lydia when you want her to harm you. Danny, of course, because Danny is all dimples and sunshine and also treated Stiles to a wonderful rant on how stupid Jackson was for escalating (and don’t think that Stiles doesn’t plan on getting that grand out of Jackson once he gets Derek to back off). He’s texted Allison a couple of times, but she understands everything because she’s an angel again now that she’s not crazy homicidal.

But that doesn’t mean that Stiles doesn’t find out that the wolves of his pack are missing within six hours of it happening.

And, bless their psychotic little hearts, the hunters that took them aren’t too bright in the first place. Stiles is actually embarrassed for them in his heart of hearts, because it should have taken a lot longer than 45 minutes to find out who kidnapped a bunch of teenagers (and a brooding alpha) in the first place, and so much longer to find out where they were stashed.

It’s a fucking disgrace.

No wonder the Code is less and less prevalent, none of the new hunters is intelligent enough to learn it, much less remember it in the heat of the moment.

So taking them into his own hands is really Stiles’ way of helping out, by culling the herd. It’s a kindness, really.

A little more effort (and some illegal usage of his dad’s official log-ins that Stiles will deny knowing, using, or having had memorized for years) proves to Stiles that he has his work cut out for him. But that he can do this, and probably without getting hurt too much in the process. That fact that Derek is going to watch him deal with six hunters is just icing on this cake.

So he plans.

From what Stiles has learned these guys, most of them, are new to the business. It’s a group of younger hunters who have been taken under the wings of two older, Code-ignorant hunters, and none of them have any idea what they’re doing. Or at least that’s Stiles’ opinion because the younger guys have an excuse to be idiots who think torturing people for information is a good idea. The older guys don’t, because they’ve been in the game long enough that they should already know at least the basics on pack hierarchy, werewolf culture, and the other things that Stiles thinks they’re trying to get out of his pack.

If Chris Argent doesn’t deal with these guys when Stiles is done with them, he has more than enough to hand them over to his dad. Though Stiles isn’t looking forward to the explaining he’ll have to do if he does that. Maybe he’ll just make Derek explain it, and record the whole thing to enjoy forever.

It doesn’t take much to decide how to deal with these guys. Most of it Stiles knows he’ll have to make up as he goes along, but Stiles isn’t particularly worried over that because he’s read a lot of history books and there’s a reason why people harp on about strategy never making it past first contact. He’s been through enough with Derek and the pack to know that it’s oh so fucking true. So a rough idea? Stiles can work with that.

He steals a bottle of Jack from his dad’s liquor cabinet, knowing that he’s going to have to make Derek replace it or get busted for drinking (again). Then he raids his dad’s tool bench in the garage, emerging triumphant with a handful of sturdy black zip ties that he promptly starts stashing in his pockets. Then he heads back upstairs to his room, because Stiles is sure that he shouldn’t go in for the rescue without some type of weapon, but his choices are limited. He could go and break into his dad’s gun safe, but the odds of getting busted for stealing the .38 are pretty high, all things considered. And balisongs are illegal in California, but so is hunting and torturing teenagers, so Stiles doesn’t feel too guilty when he plucks the knives out of his desk drawer and pockets them. If he gets busted after the fact… He’ll make Derek pay for his lawyer, and Stiles would rather get arrested for carrying an illegal knife than an illegal firearm.

The decision made, the supplies acquired, Stiles climbs into the Jeep and heads for the defunct industrial district that he is becoming entirely too familiar with. He waits until he’s out of his baby before moving on to the next step, which is to strip out of his hoodie, flannel _and_ his t-shirt until he’s just pale skin and denim. The bottle of Jack is heavy in his hands, but Stiles hefts it easily to splash it along his chest and neck, patting and rubbing it into his skin until he’s not really damp, just tacky with the sweet tang of the whiskey.

Once he’s satisfied with how much like a distillery he smells like, Stiles takes a small pull form the bottle, swishing it around in his mouth and spitting it back out before he give sin to the instinct to swallow. It feels kind of strange not to be drinking the Jack like he normally does when he liberates it from his dad, but Stiles figures that since he’s giving most of it back his complete disregard for proper appreciation of it can be overlooked this once.

He twists the cap back on and shoves the bottle underneath the driver’s seat before tugging his layers back on. Then he digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, rubbing hard until he can feel the red rawness rising. Between the smell and the eyes, Stiles is confident that he can pass himself off as a stupid drunk kid who just stumbled into the wrong place at the wrong time.

With a final quick check to make sure the zip ties and balisongs are where they belong Stiles rolls his head and then his shoulders, loosening himself up for the staggering he’s about to do. A deep breath to try and will himself calmer, and Stiles abruptly slouches, his coordination going even worse than usual until he’s nearly stumbling as he makes his way into the warehouse.

There are pallets and crates and other miscellaneous things stacked near the entrance, but Stiles blithely ignores them and just staggers around like an idiot, one hand going to fiddle with his fly as he bursts into the open area beyond the debris and remains. He can see where his pack has been gagged and chained, Derek completely separate, and the rest grouped together in a huddled little line. They’re all forced on their knees by short chains, manacles clamped around their wrists; Stiles is pretty sure he can see the effects of wolfsbane on their skin edging out from beneath the steel. Other than that, though, he doesn’t exactly see any other wounds. But the brownish stains near Derek and Boyd don’t reassure him on the count too much, and makes him want to make similar stains with hunter blood before the night is over.

He takes this all in in a split second, but once his glance is complete he continues with his drunken stagger, listing to the left as he starts unzipping and palming himself like he has to piss. Then there are the shouts and hands hot and heavy on him in the worst possible way.

“Wha’ th’fuck?” he slurs, making sure to breathe extra heavy in their faces as the whiskey stench wafts off of him. He blinks owlishly at them, one hand still on his crotch.

An older man is peering at him, brown hair gone silver at the sides and towards the back. “Son? I don’t know if you noticed, but this ain’t a public restroom.”

“Huh?” Stiles manages as he seethes inwardly. He hates it when people call him son, because that title is reserved solely for his dad now.

But he knows he’s sold it when the other veteran hunter (if he can even really be called that) bends his head with the first and murmurs something low.

“How’d you get here?” the first hunter asks him again, as patronizing sounding as he can be.

Stiles blinks again because the urge to roll his eyes is nearly unbearable. “I… drove?”

Then there are head shakes and a single angry curse. “Alright, well my boys will help you get back to your car, alright?”

Stiles doesn’t even argue, just lets two of the younger hunters escort him out.

.

If there is a reason why his pack is still alive after all the shit hunters have put them through, it’s the fact that hunters can be _this stupid_ , Stiles thinks to himself as he lets the two apprentice hunters escort him back out the way he came in. He keeps up the staggering, because hey, he’s too good to break character. But it doesn’t stop him from calling them every insulting name in the book. Who in their right mind takes an obviously drunk teenager back to his car so he can drive himself home?

No brains. Not a single one. Stiles doubts that if he put all of them together they’d even come close to intelligent.

So Stiles takes no small amount of pleasure in abruptly opening the driver’s door right into the kid on his left. It takes the hunter by surprise, sending him double as the wind is knocked from his lungs. “Oh, hey, guy,” Stiles starts, moving left as if he wants to help. The second hunter is mimicking the movement which just makes it easier to stumble, letting his weight sag in the other kid’s hands and putting his knee right into the temple of the one he hit with the door.

In less than fifteen seconds he’s already taken one down and the other isn’t quite sure what happened. Stiles is more than happy to help him out. He shifts back onto his feet, yanking himself from the second hunter’s grip and pulling him off balance as he cups his hands and slams them into both sides of the hunter’s head. He can feel the force of the air as it drives in from where he’s palmed it, and if the sharp whimpering reaction is anything to go by Stiles has just broken at least one of the guy’s eardrums.

It’s not quite enough to send him down so Stiles pulls his arm back and then sends his elbow driving forward into the kid’s solar plexus, which makes him gasp as he bends at the waist in a rather decent imitation of the first kid. This time Stiles sends his knee into the hunter’s face, feeling the snap of cartilage as he breaks his nose and sends him down for the count.

Two down, four to go, and zero injuries, is Stiles’ pleased count as he drops to his knees by the two bodies, fishing a couple zip ties from his pockets. It only takes a few minutes to muscle them onto their stomachs, lock their hands behind their backs and their feet together at the ankles. Stiles thinks about it for a moment but then decides to err on the side of caution.

He yanks their shoes off and stuffs their own socks in their mouths as gags, and then uses a couple more zip ties to make sure their legs are bent backwards and strung to the zip ties on their wrists in a wonderfully painful pretzel of hogtying.

When he finishes he just smiles, standing and dusting his hands off. Stiles has never been so pleased with his own handiwork before. But, like they say, there’s no rest for the wicked, so Stiles takes the guns and knives he stripped off of them—illegal in the first case, and coated in wolfsbane in the second—and throws them in the back of the Jeep before patting himself down to make sure he’s still got everything he needs and heading back into the warehouse.

It’s easy to slide behind the crates and pallets, sticking to shadow until he’s on the far side, behind the wolves and about as far away from the entrance as he can get. He knows he’s going to create suspicion, but he’d really rather them not immediately figure out that the drunk kid they were trying to get DUI’d isn’t anything what they thought. For as long as he can avoid them putting two and two together, Stiles will enjoy the element of surprised.

There’s enough pieces of wood lying around (Stiles is actually having to actively avoid tripping over them) that he just stoops and grabs one, throwing it down the little pathway he’s in and then ducking into the deep shadows cast by a three high stack of crates.

He can vaguely hear the response to that; nothing from the wolves of course, but the familiar voice of the first hunter to help him, and a flurry of muffled replies. He hears something a little sharper, and then footsteps headed towards his side of the warehouse. Then they split up and Stiles makes split second decision. He slinks further back into the shadows until he’s up against the metal wall of the warehouse, then slides through the narrow space thanking God that no matter how much broader his shoulders have gotten, he’s still a lanky little shit and can do this.

By now the wolves have to realize something is going on, Stiles thinks as he skulks along yet another shadow. Because this is too deliberate to be his usual antics, and obviously he’s getting results. He smirks a little because his point? Is so being made.

He makes it past a handful of gaps before he hears a set of footsteps approaching and veers back between the crates just in time to slink into the wider aisle right behind another of the younger, inexperienced hunters. The solution here is easy, so Stiles just jumps on the guy’s back, knee smack in the middle of his shoulder blades as he tugs the guy’s arms behind him so that when he hits, he lands on his face. There’s a crunching sound that is really disturbing, and a small but growing pool of blood. Stiles only takes a moment to make sure he didn’t accidentally kill the kid before hustling himself along to bind and gag him like the first two.

He’s stripped the weapons and slid them into another cranny and is just shoving this guy into the little place he’d jumped him from when he gets rushed from the side. It’s a surprisingly silent attack, even when Stiles takes a fist in the forehead leaving a sharp flare of agony just over one eye. He’s low enough to the ground from dragging body number three that Stiles doesn’t lose anything when he hits. From there he scrabbles at his attacker, muffling the sharp exhale he makes when he takes a hit in the side close enough to his ribs that his eyes water.

It’s a dirty fight, mostly on Stiles’ end because he isn’t 200 pounds of muscle like the wolves and he’s already fighting with two handicaps. But Stiles knows how to work with what he’s got and within a minute of the initial hit he’s managed to surge back up to his feet and force the other guy down underneath him. There’s blood seeping into his eye from what must be a cut over it, so Stiles blindly drops his entire body weight on the hunter’s stomach, effectively winding him, and follows it up with a harsh punch into his throat and the heel of Stiles’ palm into his nose.

Eyes roll back quickly after that and Stiles droops for a moment, one arm clutching at his side as he tries to catch his breath a little. He’s not winded, hasn’t had it knocked out of him, but grappling for your life isn’t easy and he just needs a second. Also, he wants to reflect on the fact that he’s only three out of four for broken noses. There’s just something inherently wrong about that, Stiles thinks as he climbs back to his feet. He really wanted a matched set.

He makes quick work of immobilizing his most recent conquest and shoving him into the same alcove as his buddy, and then takes a moment to blot ineffectively at the blood on his face. His fingers graze the cut itself and he hisses a little. It doesn’t feel too bad, though, so Stiles puts it out of his mind as he heads back to the front of the warehouse.

This isn’t going to be easy or simple, insinuating himself in between both of the veteran hunters without giving himself away. But Stiles is pretty sure that he can pull this off. After all, bullshitting is what he does best. That and no one ever really suspects Stiles of having anything up his sleeve, of having a plan, of being fucking capable. And that just pisses him off.

Between the whiskey clinging sticky-sweet to his skin and the blood on his forehead, Stiles thinks he has a solid plan in the making. So he makes the front of the warehouse and follows the first stumbling footsteps he made less than fifteen minutes ago, making his stumbles a little more pronounced that the first time. He figures that between the extra time for the alcohol to sink in _and_ the blood that’s still seeping from his forehead and dripping down the line of his nose being a little more fucked up than before is completely appropriate.

He puts it on like a mask: the hurt, the confusion, the simple face that apparently everyone sees when they look at him, and slurs, “’S a _thing_ out there, dude. Huge fuckin’ thing, I think it ate him.”

It’s like flipping a switch; Stiles can see the immediate change from suspicion and the promise of violence to confusion and fear. But still the promise of violence, just not for Stiles this time, for the imaginary werewolf that is probably what they’re attributing all of Stiles’ best efforts to.

“I thought we had the whole pack!” Mr. Public Restroom PSA is the first one to react, turning on his partner and ready to lay blame. Stiles takes another stumbling step, and then another.

“We do,” is the near instantaneous defense. Stiles totters a little closer. “Reports said the pack was unchanged, so one alpha and five betas.”

Stiles almost wants to snicker, because he knows exactly where those reports are coming from and Chris Argent has been kind enough to diligently leave out his part in the pack, along with Lydia and Danny and most especially Allison. That’s one thing that hunters tended to have in common: they never really believed that anything other than werewolves could be pack. It’s offensive all on its own, but Stiles will happily take the advantage that it gives him.

Just a few more steps and he’ll be there, to both of the idiots who thought they could take his pack. So he shuffles closer yet again.

They’ve turned to him to quiz him with, “What did it look like, son?” when Stiles finally is close enough to make a move.

PSA is closer, so Stiles moves on him, his hands darting to his shoulders to keep him from backing away while Stiles plays dirty and buries his knee in his groin as hard as Stiles possibly can. The guy crumples to the ground so much like Jackson did that Stiles cracks a grin even as the second hunter is pulling him off and away, one arm reared back to deck him. And it might even be enough to put Stiles down and end his heroic rescue, except Stiles is ready for it, one hand already sliding into his pocket and pulling a slim length of metal.

His wrist flicks and his fingers move and there’s a snicker-snack of metal on metal, then Stiles is burying the opened blade into his attacker’s side. Blood runs warm over his fingers as he shoves the hunter off as hard as he can.

Unfortunately he’s underestimated the hunters just a little, because the first one has recovered from the knee to his nuts a lot faster than Stiles would have expected. Or maybe it’s adrenaline and desperation that has him already surging to his feet, reaching for the gun strapped to his hip fast enough that Stiles doesn’t think, just reacts.

The metal on metal is louder than their harsh breathing, and so is the cry the hunter makes when Stiles buries the second and last knife he brought with him through the hunters hand. The guy was obviously right handed since the sidearm was on his right thigh, so Stiles knows he’s bought himself at least a few minutes because it doesn’t matter if you can shoot with both hands, it’s fucking hard to unholster a gun with the wrong hand. He wants to yank the balisong and maybe get the other hand, but he hears the clatter of metal behind him and turns.

The second hunter has pulled the knife from his side and Stiles thinks he might be planning on trying to shoot him, but Stiles doesn’t give him enough time to have the chance. He stoops and collects the knife in the two steps it takes to get to the hunter and kick into the soft flesh of his side. It lifts him up and shifts him through the air until he hits the ground almost face first. Stiles’ll take it, and he takes another step and just stomps with his foot hard enough to break the hunter’s face against the concrete floor.

He only waits long enough to make sure he’s down for the count before Stiles is turning back to PSA hunter, bearing into him with his entire body and riding him down to the ground, blade pressed to his throat. “One fucking move and I’ll slit your throat,” Stiles tells the hunter to head off the twitch that he made toward his gun, his tone even and his heart steady, because Stiles isn’t lying and is so far past fucking around that it’s not funny anymore.

For a moment there’s no response, then another heartbeat of indecisiveness. Then Stiles feels muscles tense underneath him and before the hunter twitches his hand even an inch Stiles is ramming his elbow into his face. He leans back ready to repeat it until the hunter is unconscious, but it looks like the first time is the charm so Stiles starts digging zip ties from his pockets.

After that it’s quick work to retrieve his balisongs and wipe them off as thoroughly as he can on one of the hunters’ shirts, then to tie the both of them up. They’re still out, but since Stiles isn’t worried about being able to sneak up on everyone now he doesn’t bother with gagging them.

Then Stiles takes a few minutes for himself. His thigh is aching, but it’s not any worse than anything he’s had to do in therapy so Stiles isn’t worried about the bone being injured again. His side isn’t feeling too hot, but Stiles is pretty sure that it’s nothing he needs to have seen at the hospital again. He clutches at it for a moment, breathing deep and probing tender flesh as carefully as he can before he gives himself the final okay to climb back to his feet. It doesn’t mean that he won’t have Deaton look at it though. At least then he can plan for it and fake a reinjury by innocent means if he has to.

But he’s in one piece and relatively unscathed, so Stiles is feeling pretty fucking good by the time he gets Chris Argent on the phone. After that it’s a done deal; Stiles will leave the idiot hunters to Chris’ mercy as long as the wolves are gone before he gets there. Otherwise he’ll let things get way more complicated for Stiles than it really needs to be.

So Stiles thinks for just a second about going back out to the first hunter and breaking his nose—because now he’s five out of six—and then sets it aside as wishful thinking and starts finishing his pack’s rescue. A quick pat down of both hunters produces the key that will fit the lock. He does Isaac first, and then Erica, then Scott and Boyd and saves Derek, for last.

Derek's eyes are boring into his by the time Stiles eases the gag out of his mouth before his hands drop to the manacles to let Derek go. “I told you I could take care of myself,” he tells Derek as he releases first one wrist, and then the other. “I can take care of your pack, too.”

“How did you do that?” Derek demands.

Stiles gives him a half smile as he stands, offering a hand to help Derek up and shrugging when Derek ignores it. He stretches a little, bites back the urge to sigh and yawn at the same time because he’s _tired_. “My dad got me self-defense lessons with a SWAT guy from down in L.A. Which you would know if you’d ever bothered to ask where I disappear to on Tuesday and Thursday nights.”

He can’t decide if he’s just tired from having to fight with six separate people, or if he’s just tired of having to deal with Derek. So Stiles decides it’s time to make himself scarce. “You guys need to make like trees and leaf before Mr. Argent gets here,” Stiles tells them all, and then stumbles over his feet.

Okay, so tired for the sake of tired, thank you opponents one through six.

It could be a lot worse, and Stiles knows it. He could have been badly hurt, someone else could have been. Hell, any of them could have been dead, Derek included, which is not something that fills Stiles with joy. Actually, it fills him with a sick kind of dread that makes Stiles hope he never has to deal with Derek getting killed by some assholes with a supply of wolfsbane and a grudge. He tries not to think about it as he makes his way back out of the warehouse, the pack melting into the shadows one by one until it’s just Derek there, staring at him accusingly.

“You could have told me,” Derek finally says as Stiles is hauling himself into his baby.

Stiles takes his time, even buckling his seat belt before being bothered to answer with a shrug of his shoulders. “I tried to tell you I could take care of myself, Derek. You’re the one who didn’t want to listen.”

“I’m listening now.” Derek's face is unusually intense, and Stiles has to remind himself to breathe even as he fumbles his keys into the ignition.

Stiles makes a noise of assent as he starts the Jeep. Then he says, “Alright.”

There’s a long pause as Derek stands there watching him, then, “That’s it?”

“Yes?” Stiles answers with an uncertain question. “What did you expect?”

“You have a smartass comment for everything.”

Stiles would laugh if he weren’t so tired. He has to bite back the desire to reach out and pet Derek's hair. He’s pretty sure he’d be drawing back a stump if he did that. Instead he puts the Jeep into gear and when Derek takes a step back he pulls away. Then he smirks, catches a glimpse of Derek in the rearview mirror.

He is absolutely not being a smartass when he offers to help Derek train his pack.

He drives away cackling.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumble with me](http://plotqueen.tumblr.com).
> 
> Also, there may or may not be a few little... drabbles, let's call them drabbles, to resolve a few issues. Like why Derek thought it was a good idea to get the pack to do his dirty work. And who actually won Jackson's money. AND, naturally, the mystery of will Stiles get his 6 of 6 to complete the set?
> 
> Tune in next time on- *cough* wait, yeah, wrong format...

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Don't Judge A Book (Cover Art)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5785927) by [justaddgigi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justaddgigi/pseuds/justaddgigi), [PlotQueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlotQueen/pseuds/PlotQueen)




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